The country kitchen at my mom and dad's is rich with memories and traditions. Oak handcrafted cupboards, built and fastened to the wall by my uncle, flooring laid by my brothers, and inexpensively decorated to add a splash of color, compliments of my two older sisters.
The childhood memory I hold dear is my mom being a mom. The same old daily routine for some is a labor of love for her. As a young child in grade school, before the sun shone, my mom's authoritative voice could be heard as she announced an early call to rise. One by one, my brothers, sisters and I would wake from a deep sleep. In a room built for six, eight pile in.
The first thing the eye is drawn to in the kitchen is the walnut table and chairs that match. My dad, seated at the head of the table in his familiar place, served first, he eats his poached eggs on toast. His large puffy fingers peek out from behind the morning news paper. Joyful chaos erupts as my brothers, sisters and I compete for elbow room. We blurt out demands not wanting to play second fiddle to the other.
My mom can think and do! Highly skilled, she moves through the minefield to meet our needs. She moves from fridge, stove, table and sink, but never in that order. Multitasking, my mom is attentive to each of our individual wants. Then, with a hug, she files us out the door together to catch the school bus.
The table has changed and the years show on my mom's face and once raven hair, but I can still find her in her country kitchen. I take a seat beside her. A child in her eyes, she quickly reacts to solve whatever the problem. Always loving, kind and true, she gives hope all will be better.
Author's bio: Angie is the fifth child born into a farming family. Her website-http://witchskel.weebly.com